


any common desolation

by tomorrowsrain



Category: Do No Harm (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Fix-It, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Ruben lives, Slow Burn, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 03:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10676418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowsrain/pseuds/tomorrowsrain
Summary: Ruben survives the hurricane of Ian's wrath by a thread and, after being pulled from a river in Jamaica by a kind-hearted stranger, finds new life in a place he least expected: an island in the upper western corner of the United States that shares a name with his birthplace and is full of people just like him - a little battered, a little broken, and running from ghosts.AU. Post-series.





	any common desolation

**Author's Note:**

> Help. I can't stop writing for this show. I mean, I just wrote over twelve thousand words in two days, what?
> 
> To everyone else in this tiny fandom, hi. I've been lurking for several weeks now, but I'm as terrible starting conversations online as I am in person so I haven't engaged much, sorry! Still, I've enjoyed everyone else's stories and attempts to give poor Ruben happiness.
> 
> I hope you like mine, in spite of how long and rambling it is. :) 
> 
> Title and quotes are from a poem by Ellen Bass. 
> 
> (WARNING: this story has vague descriptions of sexual assault and deals heavily with the aftermath and recovery from it. Please proceed with caution. There are also some mentions of self-harm and brief suicidal ideation, mentions of a past abusive relationship, and PTSD.)

_can be enough to make you look up_

_at the yellowed leaves of the apple tree, the few_

_that survived the rains and frost, shot_

_with late afternoon sun. They glow a deep_

_orange-gold against a blue so sheer, a single bird_

_would rip it like silk. You may have to break_

_your heart, but it isn’t nothing_

_to know even one moment alive._

 

 

_ _

 

Awareness comes in disjointed flashes:

Something hard against his aching back. Something soft covering his front. The rumble of an engine—a car? Voices murmuring. A hand on his head, near his hairline. Water wetting his skin and hair. Cold seeping into his body.

He tries to open his eyes, but they feel like lead, and his mouth _hurts_ when he attempts to part his lips to speak. He manages a faint whimper, little more than a rasping wheeze of air. The hand on his head moves, vanishes, and then fingers are knotting through his, squeezing tight.

“It’s okay,” a voice he doesn’t recognize says from somewhere very far away. “Just hold on, all right? You’re gonna be okay.”

The voice doesn’t sound very certain of this, trembling with a fear that he can feel echo in his own chest.  He tries one more time to open his eyes. This time, there is a harsh blur of light and a face hovering above his own, features indistinguishable.

Before he can force the world into focus, consciousness slips away from him like sand between his fingers and black rushes in.

 

_ _

 

He wakes up to the familiar smell of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of machines. White walls, sunlight creeping in through the gaps of the shuttered blinds, florescent lights turned off to let him rest, and a person sitting in a chair next to his bed.

He registers pale skin and short brown hair first and his heart stutter-stops in his chest, lungs seizing up from the force of his panic.

No no no _god please no—_

Frantic, he looks for a way to escape. IV in his arm, cannula in his nose, bandages on all his visible skin, head like stuffed cotton and pain a distant, creeping thing—drawing closer with every conscious breath. His legs won’t move. Why won’t his legs move? Frustrated, furious tears prick at his eyes. He _needs_ to get out of here, but his _stupid legs_ won’t…

“Shit,” a voice that sounds vaguely familiar says, “whoa, hey, calm down.”

Brown hair, pale skin, coming closer. Any second Ian is going to—

He squeezes his eyes shut, body shaking, and waits for the continuation of the nightmare, for the agony. He can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs, his breaths hitching and dying in the back of his throat.

“Shit,” the voice says again and no one touches him. “Hold on, I’m calling the nurse.”

A door opens and closes. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, just huddles down on the bed and struggles to get his lungs working right again.

 _You’re hyperventilating,_ the small, rational part of his brain left informs him. _Slow down. Deep breaths._

He tries, fails, and wants to cry. Why isn’t he dead? Ian all but _promised_ to kill him on the plane so why isn’t he—

A door opens and closes. Someone stops by his bed.

A new voice, low and soothing. Lilting accent. Female. Asking him to calm down, assuring him he’s safe, telling him that he needs to rest some more. He opens his mouth to warn her about Ian, about the monster lurking in her hospital, but his voice won’t work. He can’t form words.

_Oh god._

“Shh, rest,” she says and he can feel his eyelids starting to grow heavy.

 _Propofol,_ he guesses and then doesn’t think at all.

 

_ _

 

The person is still sitting by his bed. The blinds are open and through the slats he can see a night-lit city.

Brown hair. Pale skin. Don’t panic. _Look,_ don’t panic.

He turns his head to face the stranger and feels a sudden rush of relief. Brown hair, pale skin, blue eyes, but those are the only similarities. Where Ian’s features were sharp, these are soft—a kind and open face, looking back at him with shared trepidation.

“Hi,” the stranger says and it’s the same voice as before. Soft and kind, too. “Welcome back.”

The stranger then gives a nervous little wave. It’s absurd. This whole situation is … why isn’t he _dead?_

Or is he dead? No, he hurts too much. God, he _hurts…_

“I’m going to call the nurse again, okay?” the stranger says, standing. His chair squeaks loud against the linoleum.

Ruben watches him press a button next to the bed and the door open and close. A woman enters in sea foam hospital scrubs, smile gleaming white against the dark of her skin. She has a kind face, too, with the beginnings of crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, and her very presence is calming.

She asks him questions and tells him to nod for yes and shake his head for no and holds up fingers to indicate numbers. His throat was damaged ( _fire burning fire as he thrashes helpless and Ian—)_ and he isn’t going to be able to talk for a while.

What is his pain level? _Nine?_

Does he have anyone they can contact? _No._

Is he local? _No._

Does he know where he is? _No._

Does he remember what happened?

( _Hands touching him a blade fire pain pain **pain** lips against his tongue in his mouth tears on his cheeks “isn’t this what you wanted?” and “stop being so picky, we have the same face, Rubes” pain pain **pain** inside and out dirt beneath his skin never going to wash off something breaking in his chest no wait bones snapping and death “please just kill me” and the rush of water in his mouth throat lungs screams without sound pain **pain** Ian—) _

He nods, hands shaking violently.

The nurse adjusts his morphine dose and informs him that he’s in a hospital in Montego Bay. His injuries could fill a book: three cracked ribs, a broken leg, a fractured wrist, extensive chemical burns on his back, damage to his mouth and throat, scattered slash marks on his arms, chest, and stomach, internal bleeding…

…and signs of sexual assault.

He thinks he should feel something, but there is only a numb emptiness expanding in his chest. Like Ian drained everything out of him and there’s nothing left. He nods again as the nurse talks about police and a statement—all of which can apparently wait. Good.

The nurse shuts the blinds and he lets the morphine drug him into dreamless sleep.

 

_ _

 

“I’m Sam,” the stranger informs him the next time he’s lucid enough to participate in a conversation.

Though “participate” is probably not the best word. His voice is still gone and the doctors don’t know when he’ll get it back, only that he will. Or so they assure him.

Sam. It suits him. Ruben wishes bitterly he didn’t have brown hair and blue eyes.

“I found you,” Sam continues. “Well, me and a few friends. You washed up on the shore of a river and we … we thought you were dead.”

( _water cold and all-encompassing sucking him into the murky dark limbs too tired and broken to fight the current and oh god oh god he’s going to drown—)_

“…Carlos is a nurse, so he was able to keep you kind of stable until we made it back to the city. I was still terrified you were going to die in the back seat of our rented jeep, but you pulled through. And then I was terrified that you were going to die in surgery, but here you are. You’re really tough, you know that?”

Tough? He doesn’t feel tough. He feels held together by fraying thread that is seconds away from snapping. He feels weak and small and _broken_ and …

( _hands everywhere mouth on his fingers wrenching on his hair so hard his eyes water teeth at his throat and his shoulder deep enough to break the skin and dirt dirt dirt everywhere seeping into his bones his bones and—)_

 _… ruined_.

He reaches a shaking hand up to his shoulder and his eyes burn when his fingertips brush against a patch of gauze taped over the bite mark he knows is seared into his skin.

Ian’s teeth. Forever a part of him. He’s been marked, _branded,_ like, like…

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Sam closes the distance between, stopping next to the bed.

He reaches out and Ruben cringes, instinctive, but all Sam does is take his hand and gently move it from his shoulder. The touch is light, unobtrusive, and for some reason it only makes the urge to cry stronger.

“Why don’t you rest some more?” Sam suggests, laying Ruben’s hand carefully back in his lap. “I’ll stick around.”

 _Why?_ Ruben wants to ask, but no sound comes out when he parts his chapped lips. He still must have the question written in his expression, though, for Sam smiles sadly at him and says, “because no one deserves to be alone during something like this, okay?”

God. That … that doesn’t seem _real._ No one is that kind or selfless, holding vigil by a stranger’s bedside in a foreign country. And not just any stranger—one who is barely human anymore, who can’t even _speak_ to say thank you.

“Get some rest,” Sam repeats and squeezes Ruben’s hand.

His skin doesn’t crawl from the touch like he was expecting. Instead he has the stupidest urge to twine their fingers together like Sam did in the back of the jeep and maybe let Sam keep him tethered to the earth. He squashes it ruthlessly. Sam found him, Sam knows what happened to him, what was _done_ to him, and he doubts Sam wants to touch him any more than necessary.

No one is going to actually _want_ him anymore. And Sam is probably going to be gone in the morning.

 

_ _

 

Sam stays. He disappears now and then to shower and change, but he logs hours in the chair by Ruben’s bed—to the point where a sympathetic nurse digs up a more comfortable one for him from the depths of the hospital. He’s there when the police come to take a statement and shoos them out when Ruben expresses his unwillingness to talk. He’s there when Ruben gets enough of his voice back to whisper his name and grins like Ruben has handed him the fucking _moon_ or something.

(“It’s nice to meet you, Ruben,” he says and shakes Ruben’s good hand, absurdly formal. Like they haven’t been essentially sharing this tiny room for days.)

He holds Ruben’s hand again when the nurse changes his bandages, muttering soothing nonsense that helps far more than it should. He talks when Ruben can’t, keeps the heavy silences filled. Ruben learns that he’s here on vacation (or _was_ until stumbling across a near-dead man by a river) and he owns a floral shop in a small town on the coast of Washington State.

“It rains there a _lot_ ,” he explains, “so color is important.”

He has an older sister and, like Ruben, his father was never in the picture. He used to be a professional photographer, living in San Francisco, but he gave it up after Something Bad happened and he’s never regretted it. Likes photography more as a hobby now, anyway, and doesn’t miss the city at all. He hikes and rock climbs and occasionally goes sea kayaking. He had a boyfriend, for a long time, but he’s single now.

(Ruben secretly thinks the boyfriend was involved in the Something Bad, but doesn’t dare ask.)

He’s a nice distraction and he doesn’t mind Ruben’s long silences or his rasping, one-word answers. He doesn’t ask what happened, or where Ruben’s from, or who did this to him.

He’s a miracle and Ruben is half-convinced that his fevered brain conjured him into existence. That one of these mornings he’s going to wake up and discover that Sam was an apparition all along and he’s alone in a hospital, miles from home with no chance of going back.

He knows that he’ll come apart completely if that happens so he tries not to think about it.

He still feels numb—like he’s in a freefall waiting for the impact.

 

_ _

 

Two weeks into his hospital stay, he’s upgraded to a wheelchair and Sam pushes him down the halls and out into the courtyard to sit in the hot sun.

“Damn,” Sam murmurs as he looks around at the bright flowers and palm trees. “Wish I’d brought my camera.”

He settles for snapping a few shots on his phone before settling on a bench. Then he reaches out, like it’s nothing, and takes Ruben’s good hand in his own. There has been a lot of hand holding lately and Ruben knows that he should put a stop to it ( _can’t get him dirty too not him),_ but he craves it too much. Thinks he might even be starved for it ( _and isn’t that pathetic?)._

Sam doesn’t seem to mind, at least.

They haven’t talked about the days that are winding down, the approaching deadline of Ruben’s stay here and what will happen after. Eventually Sam needs to return to the States and Ruben _can’t_ go back. Ian dumped him in a river and left him to drown, which hopefully means, if Ian thinks he’s dead, that his family is safe. He has to keep it that way and besides, the mere _thought_ of going back to Philadelphia, to IMH, fills him with dread.

He never wants to set foot in that fucking city again.

And he has no official documentation or identification so he can’t travel, anyway. He’s stuck on this island he also never wants to see again. Alone. And there are the massive hospital bills he’s probably racked up and has no way of covering since—

_Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it yet._

“You know,” Sam says, peering up at the cloudless sky above them, “I actually think I’m starting to miss the rain.”

Ruben licks his lips and he shouldn’t, he doesn’t want to know, but, “w-when…?”

“Do I go back?” Sam finishes for him, still somehow patient with his useless voice and his incessant stutter.

Ruben nods and Sam shrugs. “Not sure. I haven’t taken a vacation since I opened the shop, so I’ve been told by Maude, my only employee, that there’s no rush. I think she actually likes not having me hovering around.”

Ruben nods again, relieved, and Sam squeezes his hand. “We don’t have to talk about this now, though. Let’s just enjoy the sun.”

Ruben closes his eyes and drinks in the warmth, both from the tropical air around him and Sam’s fingers laced with his.

 

_ _

 

The garden courtyard becomes a daily thing and it’s there that Ruben finally impacts between one breath and the next, breaking into a thousand pieces against the earth.

The tears start first, streaming unbidden down his cheeks and then come the sobs and the shaking—ugly snot bubbling in his nose and clogging his throat. He tries to hide his face in his hand to minimize the noise, but Sam still makes a distressed sound and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you. Shit. I’ve got you, Ruben.”

His emotions are an undecipherable tangle in his chest—anger and fear and heartbreak and grief—and he cries for what feels like hours while Sam keeps up a steady stream of soothing words in his ear. Somewhere in the middle of it all, he shifts so that his face is buried in Sam’s neck and clings to him like a pathetic limpet. Sam stays patient even as Ruben steadily ruins his shirt, rubbing the back of Ruben’s neck in silent reassurance.

“It’s okay. Just let it out.”

He cries so hard that he starts to choke on it and shit, he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe can’t breathe can't breathe can’t _breathe…_

Sam gets up from the bench and crouches in front of his wheelchair, cupping Ruben’s face in his callused hands. “Deep breaths, Ruben, okay? With me now, in.”

Ruben manages to suck in a heaving mouthful of air. Sam continues to talk him through hiccupping inhales and stuttering exhales until his lungs are working normally again and his sobs begin to die, tears finally drying up.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ashamed, and wipes at his face with his sleeve. “Sorry.”

Sam looks as heartbroken as Ruben feels and it digs into his chest like shards of glass—all these jagged pieces of them jumbled together in a bloody heap. “It’s okay, Ruben. Don’t ever apologize for this.”

God. He doesn’t know anything about Ruben except his name and yet here he sits, holding Ruben as he falls apart without an ounce of judgment. That nearly sets Ruben crying again, but his still battered body is too drained to muster any more tears. He wants to tell Sam everything—rip the last of the stitches off all his wounds and see if Sam knows how to sew them up right—and he wants to spare Sam the burden of it, the depth of his failure.

Either way, he doesn’t have the words.

 

_ _

 

Six weeks in the hospital and he’s healing, slowly. The burns on his back are hardening into scar tissue, the cuts are fading red lines that will someday turn pale against his skin, his throat and ribs and leg and wrist are all on the mend.

The doctors announce Monday that he can be discharged on Friday, now that he’s almost ready to upgrade to crutches. Sam is absent for the news so Ruben turns his face into his pillow, sinks his teeth into the fabric, and weathers a near silent panic attack in privacy.

He’s come to feel safe here, surrounded by medical personnel and _Sam,_ and out there is _Ian_ and no way home and he can’t, oh God, please, he _can’t he can’t…_

“I heard you’re getting discharged,” Sam says when he shows up an hour later, hair still wet from a shower.

He’s been cycling through the same set of clothes for over a month without batting an eye and today it’s a truly gaudy Hawaiian shirt that he apparently bought off a street vendor on a whim. He’s pulling it off, though.

In another life, a better one, Ruben would have asked him out.

“Yeah,” he whispers now, in this sorry excuse of a life where he’s about to say good-bye to the person that has somehow become his whole fucking world. “Friday.”

Sam nods and his expression turns hesitant in a way it hasn’t since the beginning of this mess. “Uh, so, do you have any plans? For after?”

He should say yes—free Sam from the burden of looking after him—but what comes out when he opens his mouth is a weak, tear-soaked, “ _No.”_

Sam makes a concerned noise and scoots his chair closer, covering Ruben’s hand with his own.

“I-I can’t … g-go home,” Ruben continues. “I _can’t …_ he’ll…”

Oh God, don’t think about that, _don’t think about that._

“Okay,” Sam says, immediately accepting. “Okay.” He bites his lip, looking thoughtful. “So ... look. This might sound completely crazy and I would like to preface this by promising you I’m not a crazy axe murderer or anything. Though, thinking about it that’s probably something an axe murderer would say, but I’m not. Totally not. I’ve just … I’ve been meaning to hire another employee and I have a spare room in my house.”

He can’t be serious. He can’t possibly be serious.

“So, if we can work out the paperwork for you—I’m sure there’s something for your situation—would you like to come back to Washington with me? Is that … is that far enough away from him?”

“You … y-you can’t be serious…?”

“Dead serious,” Sam says, firm. “Never been more serious about anything in my life.”

Ruben sucks in a stuttering breath, eyes burning. “ _W-why?”_

Sam has already spent _six weeks_ with him in this god-forsaken hospital, Sam pulled him out of a fucking _river,_ Sam _saved his life,_ and now …

No one is this kind. No one. No one.

Sam sighs. “Two reasons. First, I don’t think I would ever be able to forgive myself if I just left you here alone. Second…” Another deep sigh, and Sam’s gaze drops to the floor when he says, a little rushed, “the man I kind of thought I was gonna marry cheated on me and I can’t face the idea of going back to my house and trying to live there by myself.”

Ruben swallows, still trying to wrap his head around this. “I … I don’t…” he squeezes his eyes shut in frustration as his voice gives out again. Goddamnit. He can do this. He _can._ “I can’t just … be your p-pity project.”

Because why else would Sam want him?

“It wouldn’t be,” Sam says, earnest. “You wouldn’t be, I swear.”

Ruben isn’t sure he believes him, but what other options does he have? Stay here in Jamaica? He knows, with bone deep certainty, that too many nights alone with the ghost of Ian will result in … an attempt at a more permanent solution to this pain. And as much as he _hurts_ , doesn’t know how to make himself whole again or if he ever can, he doesn’t want to die.

“Okay,” he says, wondering when he’s going to wake up.

“Okay?” Sam repeats, a smile creeping onto his face.

Ruben nods, feeling ridiculous. “Okay.”

Sam laughs—a bright, clear sound—and squeezes his hand tight. “Awesome.” He gets up, chair squeaking. “I’m going to see about release paperwork for Friday and do some research. See you in a while.”

Sam touches his shoulder, warm through Ruben’s thin hospital gown, and then he’s gone. Ruben waits until the door clicks shut behind him to give in to his tears.

 

_ _

 

It’s another three weeks before they can leave Jamaica. Ruben spends it in a hotel in Montego Bay, trying not to laugh or cry at the irony. Here he is, exactly where he intended to be before Ian swept him up in a storm. He even has a handsome man around to dote on him.

And he spends his nights unable to sleep, skin crawling from phantom touch. He spends his days trying not to think, to remember—flashbacks lurking around what feels like every corner. He loses hours trapped in a haze between past and present. He breaks down crying again when Sam mentions that he covered all of Ruben’s hospital bills and a third time when Sam comes back to the hotel with several bags of clothes for him, because this is a debt he’s never going to be able to repay.

He wants to call his family, but he can’t bring himself to, terrified that Ian will somehow _know_ and descend upon Montego Bay like a vengeful wraith to finish what he started.

Sam brings him documents to sign and tells him about his town in Washington, trying to paint as vivid a picture as possible.

“It’s actually on an island,” he says one day. “San Juan Island,” and Ruben jolts, thinking of the San Juan of his childhood: loud and bright and packed with people. Somehow, he doubts this place will be the same and he’s surprised at the ache in his chest.

(He left San Juan when he was twelve and he hasn’t been back since, it shouldn’t hurt, it shouldn’t, but everything does.)

“Everything is so green,” Sam tells him another night, rubbing salve on Ruben’s still-healing back. Ruben focuses hard on the words to stave off another panic attack at having all of his wounds on display, having Sam’s hands on his skin like this. “I’d never seen green like that before. There are lots of woods and farms and you can see fucking killer whales year-round. I mean, _orcas._ Like Sea World. Whole pods of them. It’s _amazing._ Nearly had a heart attack the first time Carlos took me out and used up an entire SD card taking pictures.”

“You’ll love it,” Sam promises him several times and he tries so hard to believe it through the memories that hiss like serpents in the back of his mind, the fear that gnaws on his bones and his heart and his lungs like fingers around his throat, pressing in to bruise, and a mouth on his (the right mouth, the wrong person) and everything burning to ash, ash, ash _._

Forests and orcas and the endless stretch of sky and sea—it’s as far away from the crowded streets of Philadelphia or the pulsing sun of Montego Bay as he can imagine and he hopes, frantically, desperately, that it’s enough.

Please, please, God, let it be enough.

 

_ _

 

The flight to Seattle is _hell._ His leg, still in a cast, aches in the cramped space and he spends it seeing Ian out of the corner of his eye, jolting at a phantom hand on his shoulder or the creak of the seat next to him, and unable to get enough air in his lungs.

His digs his nails into his palms hard enough to leave deep red marks and _don’t think don’t think don’t think Ian isn’t here don’t think_ until Sam puts headphones over his ears and music pushes its way through the terror.

At his startled look, Sam smiles. “It always helps me.”

Ruben huffs a battered laugh and closes his eyes, losing himself to the soaring, operatic voice of Andrea Bocelli.

 

_ _

 

From Seattle, they have to take another plane to Friday Harbor Airport, where the mysterious Val will be waiting to pick them up.

Being back on American soil is a strange experience—equal parts euphoric and petrifying. He keeps expecting Ian to manifest out of the crowd and wrap a hand around his throat.

( _“I warned you, Rubes. You knew the consequences.”)_

It’s paranoid and _stupid_ and irrational, but he keeps close to Sam as they navigate their way to the connecting flight. Sam, possessing some strange sort of sixth sense, takes his hand halfway through the concourse. Ruben jolts, because this is different than the privacy of the hospital and people will look and people will assume and he doesn’t know how to feel about that, but he doesn’t pull away. He laces his timorous fingers through Sam’s and holds on for dear life.

 

_ _

 

“Who is Val?” Ruben asks on the plane to Friday Harbor.

Sam gives him a crooked grin. “She’s kind of a surrogate mother. Runs a few businesses on the island. We call her the patron saint of the lost.”

Ruben arches an eyebrow at that and Sam’s smile turns a little rueful. “it might be a cliché, but a lot of people end up on the island because they’re running from something. It’s a good place to disappear.”

“W-what were you running from?” Ruben works up the courage to ask.

Sam smiles again, sad. “Someday I’ll tell you that story, I promise.”

 

_ _

 

Val is a tiny woman with dark, weathered skin and gray streaked through the long braids hanging to her waist. She stands up on her tiptoes to hug Sam, kissing him on the cheek, but approaches Ruben with far more caution, shaking his hand once before retreating, and Ruben wonders if Sam warned her about him in advance or if she can _see_ the sutures holding him together like Frankenstein’s monster.

“Welcome to San Juan Island,” she says, voice surprisingly deep, and leads him to her old pickup truck.

“We live on the other side of the island,” Sam explains as he helps Ruben inside, stowing his crutches and their bags in the truck bed. “Near Roche Harbor, but it’s only about a twenty-minute drive, so don’t worry.”

Ruben doesn’t for once, too caught up in the unfolding scenery to remember the last two times he was in the backseat of a car, both of them horrific. San Juan Island is as green and lush as Sam described—forests giving way to farmland giving way to forests and the sea always a blue line in the distance. He can taste the salt in the air through the open windows, feel the cool bite of the ocean wind on his cheeks, and for the first time since Ian sat next to him on the plane to Jamaica he feels something close to alive.

Sam’s house is white clapboard with a wraparound porch and a stunning view of the ocean.

“Holy shit,” Ruben stutters when they pull up the drive, staring wide-eyed at the sea and forest around them.

“Yeah,” Sam says, sounding oddly sheepish. “I got lucky, really. Well, when I say lucky I mean Val. Val helped me get a deal for it.”

“I couldn’t resist the puppy dog eyes,” Val says dryly and Sam shoots her a hilariously betrayed look.

Ruben chokes on a half-formed laugh.

“The shop is in town,” Sam says as he comes around to help Ruben with his crutches. “I’ll give you the proper tour tomorrow.”

They’re both too exhausted for much more than getting their bags inside and going to bed. Sam shows Ruben around briefly. The house is small, but not oppressively so. Two bedrooms; two bathrooms; a large open floor style living room, dining room, and kitchen; wood floors and expansive glass windows looking out at the ocean and the lights on the harbor. Lots of photographs on the walls that he assumes are Sam’s, nature and a few people—a striking one of an orca leaping from the sea front and center over the fireplace.

It’s homey and Ruben doesn’t feel safe, exactly, but like he could be. Someday. Given enough time.

Ha.

His bedroom is at the back of the house with a bathroom across the hall and he collapses onto the double bed without bothering to change out of his clothes.

Fortunately, he’s too tired to dream and for one night, Ian deigns to leave him alone.

 

_ _

 

Sam puts him to work at the shop almost right away, arranging bouquets while Sam works the counter and Maude—a spitfire of a woman with a short shock of teal-colored hair and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes—handles deliveries. She’s seventy-three-years-old, but in far better shape than him and her voice is a deep, smoker’s rasp.

He likes her immediately.

She doesn’t ask any personal questions apart from his name and informs him not to be afraid to tell any of the nosy regulars to “fuck off,” if they make him uncomfortable.

Since he can still barely string a sentence together without stuttering, he doubts that will ever happen but he appreciates the sentiment.

The “regulars” are as eclectic as Maude.

There is Becky, whose works at one of the resorts and has a fascinating assortment of tattoos and an even more fascinating knowledge of astronomy.

Carlos, the nurse friend of Sam’s who lives in Friday Harbor and also saved his life—says “you’re welcome” in Spanish when Ruben thanks him and “I’m glad to see you’re okay” with what sounds like complete sincerity. Carlos also runs whale watching tours in his spare time and promises to take Ruben out as soon as his leg is fully healed.

Richard owns one of the island’s many farms, sports a bright ginger beard, and talks incessantly about his cows as if they were his children.

Norma manages a local bed and breakfast, is part of a book club with Maude and Val, and wants to take up beekeeping, but her partner, Pauline, won’t let her. She also dresses like an elegant flower child in long, flowing dresses whose bright colors compliment her tan skin, wears her hair loose and wild, a silver curtain down her back, and sports a cheerful butterfly pin with every outfit.

Victor - who often looks like he stepped off the cover of a 60s rock album, complete with Jimi Hendrix fro and beard - manages the visitor's center in Roche Harbor, just moved here six months ago from Arizona, and is always complaining about the cold, except for when he’s spouting obscure movie trivia.

Jiang is a doctoral research student at Friday Harbor's marine biology research lab and is always scribbling in the notebook she carries everywhere. A glimpse at it reveals a dizzying array of facts about various marine wildlife, most of which Ruben has never heard of before, and pretty impressive drawings.

They all stop by to say hello at least several times a week and though Maude calls them “nosy” none of them press him for answers, accepting his presence in Sam’s shop as if he’s always been there.

He supposes that if they’re all running from something, he fits right in. He’s just still worried, deep down, that he hasn’t run far enough and he wonders if they ever feel the same.

 

_ _

 

One night, he forces himself to take off his clothes in the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror.

It isn’t a pretty sight.

His back is a ruined mass of scar tissue and the cuts on his front are still an angry red, harsh in the dim light. The bruises on his hips have faded, but he can still see them there, as though they’ve been etched just beneath his skin—the shape of Ian’s fingers where they held him down as—and then there is the wound he almost can’t bear to look at: the bite mark on his shoulder.

When he leans closer he can make out the imprint of teeth and the next thing he knows he’s vomiting in the sink, shaking from the memory of blood running down his skin and a scream catching in his throat as Ian _branded_ him.

(“ _Shut up, Ruben, isn’t this what you wanted? I know all about your little crush, so really you should be thanking me. After all, Jason would never give you this, would he? Jason doesn’t even—.”)_

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

He frantically puts his clothes back on, adding an extra sweater for protection, and vows never to look at himself again. Ian used him up and ruined him and left behind a fucking calling card so that he can never, ever forget, and now Ruben is angry and heartsick and crumbling inside like a decaying building.

He wonders what Sam sees, when he looks at him, and immediately shies away from that. He _knows._ Sam is just too polite to say anything.

 

_ _

 

Sam gives him space, for the most part—lets him get settled on his own. But there are nights when Ruben can’t keep his screams locked up and he wakes to Sam hovering in the doorway, frantically calling his name.

(Because they’ve learned, after the first time, when Sam came to his bedside and the first thing Ruben saw was brown hair and blue eyes and he spiraled into a flashback that took him over an hour to crawl out of.)

After the third one of those in a week, Sam leads him out onto the back porch and wraps a blanket around his shoulders. Ruben is trying to apologize for waking him through the hoarseness in his throat, but Sam won’t have any of it. Just tells him to wait and vanishes back into the kitchen.

He returns with two steaming mugs and gently presses one into Ruben’s hands. “Hot cocoa and marshmallows. The ultimate comfort drink. I used to make it all the time when I first moved here.”

Ruben blinks, wondering when Sam is going to stop surprising him like this, and murmurs, “thank you.”

They sit in silence for several moments while Ruben works up the courage to ask the question nagging at him. “Did you … did you have b-bad dreams? When you first came h-here?”

Sam stares into his mug and nods, jaw clenched. “Yeah. Yeah, a lot.”

Because of the Something Bad, Ruben knows, but doesn’t say anything more. Sam has never pushed him to talk about his ghosts and the least he can do is extend the same courtesy.

“It got better, though,” Sam continues a few minutes later. “I barely have them anymore.” He gives Ruben a pointed look. “It _will_ get better.”

Ruben nods automatically and takes a comforting sip of his hot cocoa. Sam sighs softly. “I know you don’t believe me and that’s okay. I can’t imagine … look. I’m-I know I’m not very good at this, but Norma, believe it or not, is a trained psychologist and she still does some counseling on the side if you ever need someone to talk to…”

 _“No,”_ Ruben says, more forceful than he meant to. He flinches and softens his voice back to a whisper.  “No, thank you, sorry.”

“Okay,” Sam says and then adds, stubborn, “but it’s there if you ever change your mind.”

Ruben isn’t going to. The very thought of putting this into words, of sitting down and admitting to someone: _Ian beat me, Ian tortured me, Ian ra—_

No. Just no.

 

_ _

 

On quiet days, Maude or Sam sit and help him assemble bouquets, telling him the various meanings of the flowers as they go.

 

Amaryllis: _pride._

Chrysanthemum: _you’re a wonderful friend, cheerfulness_ and _rest._

Aster: _symbol of love,_ or _daintiness._

Daffodil: _regard, you’re the only one, the sun is shining when I’m with you._ And unrequited love.

Tulip: _perfect lover. Or_ red for _believe me;_ yellow for _there’s sunshine in your smile._

Lilac: _confidence._

Mistletoe: _kiss me, affection, to surmount difficulties._

Carnations: red for _love_ and _pride;_ pink for _love of a woman or a mother;_ purple for _capriciousness;_ yellow for _disdain, rejection,_ and _disappointment;_ white for _pure love_ and _innocence;_ striped for _rejection._

Marigold: _grief, jealousy, cruelty._

 

“And,” Sam says one day, laying an Iris in Ruben’s lap, “ _hope.”_

 

_ _

 

One of the first things Sam did after bringing him to the island, was get him set up with a doctor in Friday Harbor.

“She’s super nice,” he assured Ruben on the drive over, “and she won’t pry, I promise.”

 _I won’t let her,_ went unspoken but Ruben still heard it and felt a familiar swell of gratitude.

Dr. Kapoor was indeed nice, but also business-like in a way that Ruben could appreciate. She looked him over, didn’t comment on how much he shook when he had to lift his shirt up to let her see the wounds on his torso, and updated his pain prescription. She also gave him a special salve for his back and told him to come back every other week for a checkup.

Now, it’s finally time to get his cast off and Ruben is so fucking glad. He feels too vulnerable on crutches ( _when Ian finds him again he at least wants to be able to run)_ and he hates the sympathetic looks people give him when they think he won’t notice.

“Everything looks good,” Dr. Kapoor tells him once she’s removed the cast. The skin of his leg is several shades paler than normal, making the limb itself seems foreign—like someone has grafted it onto him. “Just don’t put too much strain on it yet and come back to see me in two weeks, okay?”

She gives him a cane, too, just in case, but he walks out of her office on his own power and wants to cry in relief.

Sam hugs him in the parking lot. He’s warm and solid and smiling like he’s actually _proud_ and Ruben never wants him to let go.

 

_ _

 

“How would you like another job?” Val asks him one day. “We’re heading into tourist season and I could use another pair of hands. Can you make coffee?”

Right. The café. Ruben balks at the idea of interacting with customers, but he _can_ make coffee. Very good coffee—he’s a fucking _chemist._ Or he used to be. And he _could_ use some actual money. Sam tried to pay him, but he couldn’t accept that _and_ free room and board, so.

“Yes,” he says and hopes he won’t regret it.

Val grins and squeezes his shoulder. “Great. Come by this afternoon for a trial run.”

Val has him make several different kinds of coffees, lattes, and frappuccinos and then asks if he’s worked as a barista before.

“No,” he says. “Why?”

“Because this is some of the best damn coffee I’ve ever tasted. How did you do that?”

Shit. He can’t lie. He’s always been a terrible liar. “I, um, I was a chemist. Once. Before.”

Val gives him a blank look. “A chemist?”

“Y-yeah.” Ruben flushes. Does she think he’s lying? He would probably think he’s lying. “And e-everything is formulas. Even coffee, so it’s not … it’s easy.”

Fuck. Fuck, that probably sounded like bragging and really it _isn’t_ easy, anymore. Even _thinking_ about chemistry makes him break into a cold sweat because chemistry leads to the kill drug and his notebook and Ian’s hands and mouth and voice and _blood blood so much blood please make it stop, please_ God _make it stop, he doesn’t_ want—

“Forget the coffee, then,” Val says, dragging him back to the present. “Can you bake?”

Bake?

“Uh, in theory?”

Val claps her hands together, looking far more pleased than Ruben thinks this situation warrants. “Perfect. How about another trial run?”

He follows her next door to her bakery and gets fitted with a pastel pink apron. Over the next three hours he makes more pastries than he can count and at the end of it he’s sweaty and covered in flour and halfway to elated.

This is _fun._ It’s chemistry, still, in a way, but it doesn’t make him think of the kill drug or Ian or hours spent in a lab trying to be faster and better for someone who will never care about him beyond the results he can produce.

“Well,” Val says as they clean up, “you’re hired. Can you start tomorrow morning?”

Absurdly, he feels almost as proud of himself as he did the day he was named head of pharmacology research at IMH. Maybe even prouder.

“Thank you. And yes. I’ll be here.”

Back at Sam’s house (which he is very tentatively starting to think of as _home_ ), Sam cooks them both a big dinner and produces a bottle of fucking champagne.

“To celebrate,” he says.

“You’re ridiculous,” Ruben informs him. “It’s just a simple job.”

Sam shrugs and pours him a glass of champagne. “Still a reason to celebrate. And this was on sale, so no arguments, mister.”

“Mister?” Ruben asks with an arched eyebrow.

Sam blushes. “Uh, yeah. My mom always used to add ‘mister’ to stuff like that and it just … stuck, I guess.” At Ruben’s blooming smile, he points an accusatory finger, though he’s fighting down a smile of his own. “And I am _aware_ that I sound like a grandma, okay? No need to point it out.”

Ruben bites his tongue and doesn’t add that Sam _is_ practically a grandma. He wears old sweaters everywhere, plus glasses, and runs a flower shop and _knits_ in his spare time. And Ruben suspects that he is secretly jealous of Norma, Maude, and Val’s book club.

Of course, he also hikes and mountain climbs, and kayaks and has _arm muscles,_ so.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he tells himself sternly. _Don’t._

That belongs to another life. In this one, Sam wouldn’t want him and he doesn’t even know if he could handle being with someone that way again. 

And dwelling only adds to the pain.

“A toast,” Sam says grandly, raising his glass, “to a future career in baking.”

Ruben laughs, shocked by the force of it—how easy it slips from his mouth—and clinks his glass against Sam’s.

 

_ _

 

He tries to open himself up to Sam, little by little. In pieces. Figures that he owes him as much, after everything. After all the ways Sam continues to save him without even knowing.

“I was born in Puerto Rico,” he says on one of their porch nights, watching the moonlight dip silver fingers into the ocean. “In San Juan. Moved to the States when I was twelve.”

“San Juan,” Sam says softly and squeezes Ruben’s hand.

Ruben nods and it doesn’t hurt as much, anymore—a dull knife between his ribs instead of a sharp blade. “Yeah.”

When it’s just the two of them in the shop, trying to arrange lily displays for a wedding, he works up the courage to say, “I was a chemist. In Philadelphia. I ran a research lab. I … I have a PhD.”

“Shit, really?” Sam asks, pauses in the middle of cutting stems. At Ruben’s nod, he whistles. “How old are you?”

Ruben swallows and shifts his weight. “Um, thirty.”

“And how old were you when you got your PhD?”

“Uh, twenty-two?”

“Holy shit. You’re like, a fucking genius, aren’t you?”

Ruben shakes his head, because maybe, once, but now? “N-no. Not really. I was just good at science.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short,” Sam insists, pointing a lily at him. “I barely passed _high school_ chemistry and you got a PhD in it at _twenty-two._ You’re brilliant.”

Brilliant. He can’t remember the last time someone called him that (or amazing or a genius) without wanting something.

( _compliment the poor, affection-starved chemist who has an obvious crush on you so he keeps working for you, endangers his own life to make your drugs.)_

“Thank you,” he says and gathers up another handful of lilies to rearrange so he can ignore the pulsing ache in his chest.

 

_ _

 

Summer rolls in on the tide, bringing waves of tourists with it. Ruben spends his mornings at the bakery with Val and his afternoons in the flower shop with Maude and Sam and his nights fighting off Ian in his dreams.

The nightmares are lessening, though, slowly. Ebbing away like a current running out to sea and he’s not sure if he should let himself hope.

It’s such a dangerous, fickle thing.

 

_ _

 

One afternoon, the bell rings around 1pm and Ruben looks up from the counter to see Norma striding in, pushing her hot pink sunglasses up on her head. Sam had to run an errand and Maude is off on a delivery run down to Lakedale Resort, leaving Ruben to run the store.

He’s only slightly terrified about interacting with the public, which is progress, and Norma he can definitely handle.  

“Hi,” he says and then blinks in confusion as Norma casually flips the sign on the door.

“You’re closing for the afternoon,” she explains.

“What? Sam didn’t say anything a-about…”

“Because he’s an idiot and probably forgot. Today is the Beekeeping Field Day and as this is your first year on the island, you’re not allowed to miss it. Come on.” She waves to him.

He looks around the shop, still off-balance. “But the flowers…”

“I’ll call Sam and tell him to clean up and meet us there, it’s fine.”

She seems seconds away from coming around the corner and bodily dragging him from the store—her thin frame almost vibrating with excitement—so, he grabs his coat and follows her out, locking the door behind him.

“I have a spare suit and veil in the back,” she tells him as he climbs into the passenger seat of her jeep. “Should fit you. You’re small.”

He flushes at that, because he _isn’t,_ really. He’s five foot nine, but Norma somehow has at least an inch on him. She towers over Maude and Val, nearly as tall as Sam. He’d also rather not think about the weight he’s lost and is still having trouble putting back on.

Something must show on his face, because Norma glances at him and smirks, “relax, dear, it’s a compliment. You’re very cute.”

Cute? Really?

( _she wouldn’t say that if she saw your—)_

“Um, what’s … what’s involved in…?”

“Beekeeping Field Day? Beekeeping, of course.”

“As in, we’re going to do…?”

“Yep,” Norma says, delighted. “It’s incredible.”

Ruben has never liked bees so he remains highly dubious, but has to admit the chance to be around science of some kind again is … nice.

There are quite a few people already milling around when they arrive and Norma stops by the truck bed to call Sam. “Yes, yes, it’s today, you numpty. Yes, he’s with me. Don’t worry, he’s fine. Honestly. We’re going to have a grand time. I’ll drop him back off when we’re done.”

Ruben frowns when she hangs up. “I thought Sam was going to meet us?”

Norma rolls her dark eyes. “I forgot that he’s a sissy who’s terrified of bees, so it’s just the two of us. Now suit up, dear. You’re going to love this.”

Surprisingly, she’s _right._ Once he gets over his instinctive human panic at being in close proximity to things that could sting him, he’s fascinated. Norma shows him how to inspect a hive and start a smoker. Helps him remove a few combs and tells him about the different patterns in them. Points out drones and the queen and mites, all the while chattering a mile a minute about what amazing, underappreciated creatures bees are.

It _is_ incredible, seeing this glimpse of life at work. Nature, following its designated scientific patterns.

(He wonders, suddenly, what would have happened if he had chosen a different field of science, like this or marine biology. No Jason, no Ian, no hours of his life lost to a lab and a drug he will never benefit from, no threats, no being forcibly hooked up to a dialysis machine or choked or thrown into walls or threatened—and god, does it _hurt,_ what could have, might have been.)

"I can see why you want do this,” he says to Norma as they take some combs for extraction.

He can practically see Norma beaming at him from behind her veil. “I know, right? Now I just need to convince Pauline. I love her, but she’s as stubborn as a mule.”

She drops him off at the store that evening with a fresh jar of honey and a jaunty wave.

He really likes Norma.

 

_ _

 

He tries again to call his family, this time from the phone in the flower shop.

He finally told Sam about them last night, his mother and his baby sisters, and Sam asked, quiet, “do they know you’re alive?”

And no, they _don’t._ He got on a plane to Jamaica and vanished and he can’t imagine what the last six months have been like for them.

Have they held a funeral? Have they given up looking?

Still, his hands are shaking so badly it takes him three tries to dial his home number. If Ian somehow finds out and hurts them…

_Ian thinks you’re dead, just fucking **dial.**_

It rings three times before his mother picks up and all he gets out is a breathless, “mama,” before everything dissolves into chaos.

When Sam returns to the shop, Ruben is slumped over a work station in the back, clutching the phone to his ear and speaking in Spanish garbled by his tears. Reassuring his mother and sisters that he’s alive and okay and _safe,_ and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry and he can’t come home, but he’ll keep in touch, he promises, God, he’s missed them so much.

He’s still paranoid, so he keeps the call relatively short and explains that he can’t tell them where he is yet, but he’s safe, he swears he’s safe, and he’ll call again next week.

“I’m proud of you,” Sam says softly when he hangs up and pulls him into a hug, rocking him as he works through the last of his tears. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Ruben.”

 

_ _

 

Now that the days are longer and the weather a little more forgiving, the “regulars” meet for dinner on Fridays at a seaside restaurant in town, commandeering a picnic table on the back patio.

Ruben usually drinks quietly and listens to the buzz of conversation around him, content to be a silent observer. The topics range from ridiculous things the tourists do to Richard’s cows, to how Victor doesn’t care what everyone says this is _not_ fucking summer, to Jiang’s research, to analysis of whatever book Val, Maude, and Norma are reading at the moment—whether anyone else has read it or not.

Tonight, though, Becky leans across the table and says to him, “you know, you could definitely rock some tattoos.”

He nearly chokes on his drink. “W-why?”

Becky’s eyes go soft and she reaches out to touch the scar just above Ruben’s wrist, exposed from his sleeve riding up. Startled, Ruben pulls his arm away, hiding it under the table, and glances around. Fortunately, everyone else is caught up in other conversations and hasn’t noticed the exchange.

Becky leans forward again and whispers, “I used to cut myself. I got tattoos to cover up the scars. I don’t know what happened to you, but it helped me a lot.”

Ruben struggles to wrap his mind around that. Becky, confident, vibrant Becky, used to…

“Think about it,” Becky says before he can unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “And even if you don’t want to, trust me when I say you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“They’re … they’re not just on my arm,” Ruben says before he can stop himself, “and some of them are r-really bad.”

Though the salve has helped, his back is always going to be a mess from hips to shoulders. Fortunately, he’s never been one to go shirtless, but _still._

Becky gives him a sympathetic look. “Mine are everywhere, too. I wasn’t exactly judicious or strategic with it. Arms and legs, mostly. I haven’t covered up all of them, so I can show you sometime, if that would help, too.” She smiles at him. “Just wanted you to know you’re not alone.”

His eyes burn and he blinks rapidly to stave off the tears. Says, “thank you,” around the massive lump in his throat.

Becky raises her cocktail at him and winks. When he glances down the table, Sam is watching him with a furrowed brow.

 

_ _

“She’s right, you know,” Sam says on the drive home. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

“You heard that?” Ruben asks, mortified.

Even though Sam has seen his scars, he still hates talking about it. Talking about it means acknowledging it and worrying about what Sam might be thinking every time he helps put salve on Ruben’s ruined back.

“Some of it,” Sam says.

“Did … did you know that? About Becky?”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs. “Everyone’s running from something.”

Ruben chews on his lip, wondering how to proceed. All of his words are tangled up again, like the ghost of Ian has reached in a plucked out his voice. It’s then he realizes that they’ve taken a detour and Sam is parking on the beach.

“C’mon,” Sam says, beckoning him out of the car.

He follows Sam to a spot a few feet away from the edge of the black water and takes a seat in the sand.

“So,” Sam says after a moment, “I promised you that story, remember?”

Ruben nods, heart in his throat.

Sam doesn’t look at him as he talks and his voice is carefully steady. “I had a boyfriend in San Francisco. We started dating right after I moved to the city. It was good, for a while. Great, even. Then Boyfriend starts being negative all the time. I’m too fat, too lazy, my clothes are stupid, my haircut makes me look like a middle-aged lesbian.” He snorts, picks up a fistful of sand and lets it stream out between his fingers. “Then came the drinking and the next thing I knew we were fighting all the time. Like, full on screaming matches. It wasn’t pretty. And during one fight—I don’t even know what set him off. I can’t remember what I said or if I even said anything at all, it’s just a blur but…”

His voice cracks. “He … he _stabbed me._ With a kitchen knife. Twice. Like … like some kind of angry housewife from a 1950s murder mystery.” Sam sniffs and wipes at his face while Ruben sits, frozen in shock.

“Left me to bleed out on the kitchen floor, but I managed to call 911. Spent a week in the hospital while my mom cried and my sister demanded to know why I hadn’t said anything.”

He sucks in a deep breath and reaches for Ruben’s hand, guides under his shirt. Ruben shudders, panic crawling up his throat, and freezes when he feels rough scar tissue beneath his fingertips, covering Sam’s stomach.

Sam drops Ruben’s hand and wipes his face again. “I couldn’t stay, after. The city … he was everywhere. All of my friends were his friends and the apartment was in his name. I knew Carlos from college and he told me about the island, kept going on about how great it was here, and I’ve always wanted to start my own business, so I sold everything and moved here.”

A wet laugh. “Of course, I met another guy here, decided to give the whole relationship thing a second go and he managed to cheat on me on an island with a population of under seven thousand people, so.”

“I’m sorry,” Ruben whispers, not sure of anything else to say.

Sam shakes his head. “It’s fine. I mean, it sucks, but I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” He glances over at Ruben, and says, hesitant, “I know … I know I promised I wouldn’t ask, but, was it a boyfriend who …. who hurt you?”

( _“C’mon, Rubes, why the tears? Just close your eyes and pretend I’m Jason or something. Isn’t that your little fantasy?”)_

“No,” Ruben says, cringing away from the memory of Ian’s hands on his skin of Ian _inside— “_ No, it wasn’t.”

Sam nods. “Good. I mean—I just … it’s a special kind of pain, you know? I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“No, I understand,” Ruben says. He can’t imagine how much it would have hurt if Jason had actually wanted him, if they had been intimate only for Ian to…

_Don’t think about it._

“It’s … it’s complicated.” He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, pushes his feet into the sand so it washes over his boots. “But someday, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“You don’t have to,” Sam insists. “I just wanted you know that I get it, at least a little, and you don’t have to be ashamed. I know you hate it when I see your scars but Becky was right and you’re…” He trails off and rakes a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “You’re incredible,” he continues, barely audible above the waves.

Ruben has no idea what to do with that except cry so he stands up. “We should get back, right?”

Sam looks at him for a moment with an indecipherable expression before nodding and climbing to his feet.

 

_ _

 

That night, Ruben lies in bed with “ _you’re incredible”_ playing on a loop through his brain and reminds himself over and over that Sam is just being nice. That’s all, that’s _all._

Sam doesn’t want him and Sam never will.

 

_ _

 

Summer is also wedding season and Val starts coming over to the shop with Ruben some afternoons to help. Which is how Ruben finds himself seated at a table with Val and Maude spraying leaves white and listening to them gossip. Apparently, Richard and his wife are having problems again and they suspect Jiang's doctorate thesis is actually driving her insane.

“And Sam,” Maude says with a cluck of her tongue, “when is that boy going to get his head out of his ass and ask you out. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

At first, Ruben thinks that she’s referring to _Val,_ but then he glances up and realizes that they’re both looking at _him._ His finger reflexively presses down on the spray can and he gets white paint all over his sleeve.

“Y-you can’t be _serious_ …”

“Right,” Maude huffs, “I forgot that you have the observation skills of a brick.”

“At least when it comes to yourself,” Val clarifies.

“And Sam.”

“And Sam.”

“He is _not_ subtle.”

“No, not at all.”

Ruben gapes at them, convinced that they’re joking. They have to be joking.

“You’re wrong,” he blurts, half-hysterical. “Sam doesn’t want me.”

Val’s eyes go sad and soft and Ruben _hates it._ “Ruben…”

“He _doesn’t,”_ Ruben insists, tempted to get up and run and not look back.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Val presses.

Ruben shoots her an incredulous look. “Because … because I can’t get through a _week_ without waking him up with my nightmares or having a flashback and I’m … I’m—I’m barely a person, anymore, okay? I’m just a stitched-together _mess.”_ Oh, look, here come the tears, rolling hot down his cheeks. “I’m _ruined._ No one wants someone ruined.”

Val mutters something about wishing Norma was here but Maude leans across the table and grabs his wrist, giving his arm a little shake. “Now, you listen to me, Ruben Marcado. You are _not_ ruined. A mess, maybe, but who the fuck isn’t? You’ve been hurt and healing is going to take a lot of time, but you _will_ heal and you are _not_ ruined.”

Ruben pulls away from the touch and says, without thinking, “he _raped_ me.”

All of the air goes out of the room. Oh God. Fuck, _fuck,_ he wasn’t supposed to admit that, no one was ever supposed to know and _oh God oh God can they see it all the dirt covering him lining his bones and clogging his lungs can they see the places where Ian touched him kissed him held him down and his shoulder is burning Ian’s teeth sinking in deeper and deeper and deeper until he’s screaming marked forever—_

“Ruben,” a woman’s voice says, urgent. Hands on his face, warm and rough with wrinkles.

Val.

“Come on, Ruben, breathe, it’s okay.”

Breathe? Oh. He can hear himself wheezing now, loud in his ears, and he sucks in a burning mouthful of air.

“That’s it,” Val says. “One, two, three, exhale. You’re okay. One, two, three, inhale…”

She talks him through several more, until he’s calmed enough to stop hyperventilating. And he should get up now and _leave_ and pretend this never happened and never talk to either of them again, but he repeats in a whisper, “he raped me. He raped me.”

It’s like a dam has broken open within him, all the poison trapped in his veins spilling out. It feels good and terrifying and _good_ to finally admit, to have someone else know. To say it and make it real.

He _suffered._

Ian assaulted him and tortured him and somehow, he’s still breathing. He’s _here._ That’s important, he thinks. It has to be important.

“He raped me,” he hiccups, the tears starting anew, and Val sits next to him on the bench, wrapping her solid arms around him.

Maude moves to his other side, pressing dry lips to his temple, and they sit and hold him while he cries, not saying a word. After his tears have finally dried up, Maude runs light fingers down his back and says, matter of fact, “I’m so sorry that happened to you, dear. I have no doubt he’ll burn in hell for what he’s done and I stand by what I said. You are _not_ ruined.”

“And Sam _does_ want you,” Val insists. “He’s just under the delusion that you’re a delicate flower and he’s terrified of screwing up.”

“And we’re here for you, always,” Maude says, stroking his hair like his mother always used to when he was a boy. “You don’t have to talk to any of us, if you don’t want to, but we’ve got a fucking graveyard of past skeletons between us and we’ll always listen.”

“Without judging.”

“No judging, whatsoever.”

Ruben laughs wetly. His ribcage feels too small to contain everything he’s feeling and he’s so fucking tired, but he _told someone_ and they didn’t run screaming for the hills. So, in the middle of his exhaustion and his grief and his uncertainty, there is hope blooming fragile and vibrant in his chest.

Like an iris.

 

_ _

 

 

“Are you okay?” Sam asks that night at the dinner table.

“No,” Ruben admits and blows out a long breath. “But I think I will be.”

Sam reaches across the table and laces their fingers together—stitches over wounds.

 

_ _

 

Richard throws a Fourth of July party at his farm and Ruben gets introduced to all of the cows, the names of whom he promptly forgets, even though Richard has mentioned them dozens of times at this point.

Victor barbecues and Sam is on photo duty and Becky grins when she sees the sleeves Ruben has finally dared to roll up to his elbows, hugging him long and hard and kissing him on the cheek.

“Here,” she says, rolling up her own sleeves—pale skin covered in tattoos and scars, “now we match.”

Jiang chatters at him about science, demanding to know why he never mentioned that he, too, suffered through a PhD program so that they could bond over the shared trauma.

“I was a lot younger than you are, though,” he teases, the cider he’s had giving him courage, “so I wasn’t sure if we could relate.”

She smacks him on the arm, laughing, and gets him another drink.

Norma, Maude, and Val are all sporting fantastic hats and insist on hugging him, too, and he feels overwhelmed and safe and home—this little band of misfits the family he never knew he needed.

The food is amazing and once the sun goes down, Richard sets off fireworks in the field. Everyone gathers at the fence line to admire the display and Sam …

Sam kisses him.

He’s drunk enough not to panic completely, to enjoy the warmth of Sam’s mouth against his, and then the world rushes back in and he pulls away with a startled jolt. Sam’s eyes are wide and very blue behind his glasses.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry … was that not good?”

Ruben doesn’t know. His head is too fuzzy to properly process this and the fireworks are still going off and they’re in the middle of a fucking field with all of their friends.

“Later,” Ruben decides, for himself and Sam and the ghost of Ian rising from the shadows.

( _Shut up and let me fucking enjoy this, you bastard.)_

Sam nods and goes to sit by Victor. Ruben is grateful for the space and sad to see him go. His mouth is tingling from the alcohol and Sam’s lips.

He focuses on the fireworks exploding like starbursts overhead and lets them drown out everything else.

 

_ _

 

The morning brings a killer hangover and the panic the alcohol staved off the night before.

Sam _kissed him._

Sam _actually…_

He touches his mouth, half wondering if he dreamed it, but when he stumbles out of his bedroom Sam is sitting at the kitchen table with coffee and a guilty expression, looking very much like a kicked puppy.

He surges to his feet when he sees Ruben, wringing his hands. “Hey, good morning, I’m so sorry about last night. I way overstepped, I know, and I understand if you need me to fuck off for a while. Just say the word and—”

“Coffee,” Ruben interrupts, unable to deal with anything else yet.

Sam blinks at him. “W-what?”

“Is there still coffee?”

“Oh. Yes.”

Ruben pours himself a mug, forgoing his customary cream and two sugars, and slumps into a seat across from Sam. He’s not sure if he’s ready for this—a huge part of him is screaming to run and hide and somewhere in his head Ian is laughing at him.

(“ _Oh, Rubes, you think he actually wants to date you? Fuck you, sure, even I did that, but date you? Don’t be stupid.”)_

God, he desperately wants to call Maude or Val or Norma and ask for advice.

Actually, that isn’t a bad idea.

“Can I use the phone?”

Sam nods, apparently tongue-tied, and Ruben takes the phone and a blanket and his coffee out onto the porch.

It’s Norma who picks up and he spills the whole story to her right after she’s said, “good morning.”

“What do I do?” he asks when he’s done, clutching the blanket tighter around his shoulders to ward off the morning chill coming from the sea. “I’m still … I have so many issues. What if he gets bored or impatient or I’m never able to … to do certain things and I break his heart or—”

“Ruben, darling,” Norma interrupts, gentle, “do you _want_ a relationship with Sam?”

Does he?

He thinks of Sam by his hospital bed. Sam paying for his medical bills. Sam holding him in the courtyard as he broke down, unafraid of his tears. Sam rubbing salve onto his back. Sam filling his silences. Sam opening up his home and his life like it was _nothing._ Sam in his glasses and old lady sweaters, smiling in the middle of all his flowers.

 _“You’re incredible,”_ on a beach in the moonlight and Sam’s fingers laced with his.

“Yes,” he says, putting a hand over his aching heart. “Yes, I do. But I’m so scared.”

“I know, dear,” Norma says. “Of course you are. But if you give up now, without ever trying, _he_ wins. And I’ve learned, Ruben, from my many years on this earth that when someone attempts to destroy you, the best revenge you can enact is to _live.”_

“Okay,” Ruben says softly. “Okay.”

“Go get him, tiger,” Norma says and he laughs in spite of himself.

Sam is standing awkwardly in the kitchen when he steps back inside, clutching his coffee. Ruben takes a deep breath.

He can do this. He _can._

“We need to talk,” he says, setting his own still-full mug on the counter. “Can we go to the beach?”

Sam, to his credit, takes this in stride and nods. “Sure. Let me get dressed and I’ll meet you outside?”

Dressed, right. That would help.

 

_ _

 

The drive to what Ruben is now thinking of as their beach is oppressively quiet, the air weighted with unsaid things. Once they arrive, they find a secluded spot and sit cross-legged in the sand, facing the rolling ocean.

Sam waits, giving Ruben time to collect his thoughts, and God, Ruben is going to fall in love with him someday.

“Okay,” he says for the moment, wrapping his arms around himself. “Do you want to date me?”

“Yes,” Sam says immediately. “And I, um, I really want to kiss you again, too, but like I said, I totally understand if you don’t want me to.”

“Ever?” Ruben presses, because he can’t really believe that yet.

Sam turns to face him and there is no uncertainty in his voice when he says, “Ever.”

“You can’t be real,” Ruben mutters, half to himself, and exhales long. “Why?”

“Why do I want to date you?”

“Yes. Please I … I need to know.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Because you’re smart and you’re funny and you’re kind and everyone loves you and I really like your face and your voice and your everything, really, and I meant what I said, you’re incredible.” He winces. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I ramble when I’m really nervous, but if you need more I think you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met and I kind of want you around for if not forever than at least a really long time and I know that might be too much, I’m sorry, and I should have said something sooner but you’re _important_ and I don’t want to screw this up. Which I’m probably currently doing so I’m gonna shut up now.”

Well. Ruben sits for a moment, struggling to wrap his head around all of that. Sam looks earnest and sincere and Ruben chooses to believe him—that Sam sees all of those wonderful things when he looks at Ruben and not the scars and the dirt and the trauma.

“I promised you that story,” Ruben whispers.

“You don’t have to,” Sam says. “You don’t owe it to me.”

“I want to,” Ruben insists with a courage he doesn’t entirely feel. “If we’re going to date … I want you to know this. I need you to.”

“Okay,” Sam says softly and puts a comforting hand on Ruben’s arm. “Tell me.”

 

 

_ _

 

He does. Starting with Jason first coming to him about the drug and ending in an abandoned house in Jamaica.

It takes a long time. He paces, he cries, and he has to stop numerous times to collect himself. Sam can’t help reacting to the more terrible parts (“ _He strangled you?” “Oh, my god, he wrote on the wall in your **blood**?” “Why didn’t he just leave you alone? What a fucking manipulative bastard.”) _ and gets up to hold Ruben close when he tries to describe the sexual assault and the torture that came after, letting him sob into the shoulder of his coat and offering no trite reassurances.

“I had a crush on Jason,” Ruben explains through his tears, “and Ian _knew_ so he … he said I should enjoy it. That h-he w-was … d-d-doing me a _favor.”_

“Motherfucker,” Sam says, full of helpless rage, and pulls him closer. “ _Motherfucker.”_

When he’s finally done, Ruben feels drained and so relieved. Someone else knows the whole of it—every detail of the sordid mess that was his life for so long—and that person is still holding him tight, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“You’re incredible,” Sam says, his own voice wet. “You’re fucking incredible, Ruben.”

Ruben closes his eyes and he still doesn’t buy it yet, but he’s willing to let Sam believe for him.

“I want to date you,” he says into the fabric of Sam’s coat, “but we’re gonna have to go _really_ slow.”

“I have plenty of issues of my own,” Sam says, “so slow is fine.”

“Like _glacial._ ”

“Glacial is good, I swear.” He pulls back and swipes a gentle thumb over Ruben’s cheek, brushing away the lingering salt from his tears. “Though is it okay if I kiss you again?”

Ruben thinks about it for a long moment.

( _Ian’s mouth on his and hands on his skin and blood everywhere inside and out he doesn’t want, he doesn’t, he doesn’t and_ shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.)

“Yes,” he decides, determined. “I think that would be acceptable.”

Sam laughs, bright and clear, and leans down to press his lips against Ruben’s and it’s good.

It’s so fucking _good._

_ _

 

For their first official date, Sam takes Ruben whale watching out on Carlos’s boat.  They come across an entire pod of orcas less than an hour in and Carlos kills the engine.

“They’re amazing,” Ruben breathes, watching as several as them leap from the sea in majestic arcs.

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, squeezing his hand. “They’re one of my favorite things about this place.”

They follow the pod from a distance, until they disappear across the golden horizon line where the ocean meets the sky. It looks like a painting—the riot of color stretching out overhead—and Ruben is _happy._

It feels like a miracle.

“Thank you for this,” he says to Sam and means for so much more than whale watching.

Sam kisses his temple and together they watch the sun sinking beneath the waves. As Carlos turns them back towards the harbor, Ruben realizes, with sudden clarity, that he’s going to be okay. Ian and Jason didn’t break him.

In fact, he’s going to be better than okay.

He’s going to _live._

_ _

_A breath can uncoil as you walk across your own muddy yard,_  
_the big dipper pouring night down over you, and everything_  
_you dread, all you can’t bear, dissolves_  
_and, like a needle slipped into your vein—_  
_that sudden rush of the world._

 

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on tumblr @wobblyspelling so feel free to hit me up over there, too. I will work on being more sociable. :) xx


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